"Don't be afraid, mother," said Dounia, kissing her, "better have faith in him."
"Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven't slept all night," exclaimed the
They came out into the street.
"Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna…
she was all in white… she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me,
but so sternly as though she were blaming me…. Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me!
You don't know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna's dead!"
"No, I didn't know; who is Marfa Petrovna?"
"She died suddenly; and only fancy…"
"Afterwards, mamma," put in Dounia. "He doesn't know who Marfa Petrovna is."
"Ah, you don't know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me,
Dmitri Prokofitch, I don't know what I am thinking about these last few days. I
look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you
knew all about us. I look on you as a relation…. Don't be angry with me for saying
so. Dear me, what's the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?"
"Yes, I bruised it," muttered Razumihin overjoyed.
"I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me….
But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this
woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show
his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my… weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri
Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know."
"Don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown! don't ask him
too much about his health; he doesn't like that."
"Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs….
What an awful staircase!"
"Mother, you are quite pale, don't distress yourself, darling," said Dounia caressing
her, then with flashing eyes she added: "He ought to be happy at seeing you, and
you are tormenting yourself so."
"Wait, I'll peep in and see whether he has waked up."
The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached
the landlady's door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny
crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within.
When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria
Alexandrovna almost cried out. CHAPTERTHREE Chapter Three
"HE IS well, quite well!" Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered.
He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before,
on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully
washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately
crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen.
Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before,
but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one
who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his
lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing
a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements.
He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the
impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face
lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it
a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light
soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying
his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in
him no joy at the arrival of his mother and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden
determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that
almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place
and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself
and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac,
fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word.
"Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well," said Raskolnikov, giving his mother
and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once.
"And I don't say this as I did yesterday," he said addressing Razumihin, with a
friendly pressure of his hand.
"Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day," began Zossimov, much delighted
at the ladies' entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with
his patient for ten minutes. "In another three or four days, if he goes on like
this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two… or perhaps
even three. This has been coming on for a long while…. eh? Confess, now, that it
has been perhaps your own fault?" he added, with a tentative smile, as though still
afraid of irritating him.
"It is very possible," answered Raskolnikov coldly.
"I should say, too," continued Zossimov with zest, "that your complete recovery
depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress
upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental
causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured,
if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don't know, but
they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself,
of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving
the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite
aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial."
"Yes, yes; you are perfectly right…. I will make haste and return to the university:
and then everything will go smoothly…."
Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies,
was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable
mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began
at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous
"What! he saw you last night?" Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. "Then you
have not slept either after your journey."
"Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o'clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before
two at home."
"I don't know how to thank him either," Raskolnikov went on suddenly frowning
and looking down. "Setting aside the question of payment– forgive me for referring
to it (he turned to Zossimov)– I really don't know what I have done to deserve such
special attention from you! I simply don't understand it… and… and… it weighs upon
me, indeed, because I don't understand it. I tell you so candidly."
"Don't be irritated." Zossimov forced himself to laugh. "Assume that you are
my first patient– well– we fellows just beginning to practise love our first patients
as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course,
I am not rich in patients."
"I say nothing about him," added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, "though
he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble."
"What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are
you?" shouted Razumihin.
If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of
sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna
noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother.
"As for you, mother, I don't dare to speak," he went on, as though repeating
a lesson learned by heart. "It is only to-day that I have been able to realise a
little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come
When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without
a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught
it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first
time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother's face
lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation.
"Yes, that is what I love him for," Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to
himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. "He has these movements."
"And how well he does it all," the mother was thinking to herself. "What generous
impulses he has, and how simply, how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding
with his sister– simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking
at her like that…. And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!… He
is even better looking than Dounia…. But, good heavens, what a suit– how terribly
he's dressed!… Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch's shop, is better dressed!
I could rush at him and hug him… weep over him– but I am afraid…. Oh, dear, he's
so strange! He's talking kindly, but I'm afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?…"
"Oh, Rodya, you wouldn't believe," she began suddenly, in haste to answer his
words to her, "how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it's all over and
done with and we are quite happy again– I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost
straight from the train to embrace you and that woman– ah, here she is! Good morning,
Nastasya!… She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just
run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets.
You can't imagine how we felt! I couldn't help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant
Potanchikov, a friend of your father's– you can't remember him, Rodya– who ran out
in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the courtyard and they
couldn't pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on
the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help…. Because we were
alone, utterly alone," she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting
it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although "we are quite
"Yes, yes…. Of course it's very annoying…." Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but
with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity.
"What else was it I wanted to say," he went on trying to recollect. "Oh, yes;
mother, and you too, Dounia, please don't think that I didn't mean to come and see
you to-day and was waiting for you to come first."
"What are you saying, Rodya?" cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.
"Is he answering us as a duty?" Dounia wondered. "Is he being reconciled and
asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?"
"I've only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my
clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her… Nastasya… to wash out the blood… I've only
"Blood! What blood?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm.
"Oh, nothing– don't be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather
delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over… a clerk…"
"Delirious? But you remember everything!" Razumihin interrupted.
"That's true," Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. "I remember everything
even to the slightest detail, and yet– why I did that and went there and said that,
I can't clearly explain now."
"A familiar phenomenon," interposed Zossimov, "actions are sometimes performed
in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged
and dependent on various morbid impressions– it's like a dream."
"Perhaps it's a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman," thought
"Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too," observed Dounia, looking
uneasily at Zossimov.
"There is some truth in your observation," the latter replied. "In that sense
we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference
that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it
is true, hardly exists. Among dozens– perhaps hundreds of thousands– hardly one
is to be met with."
At the word "madman," carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite
subject, every one frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange
smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something.
"Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!" Razumihin cried
"What?" Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. "Oh… I got spattered with blood helping
to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday.
I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me… to his wife
for the funeral. She's a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature… three little
children, starving… nothing in the house… there's a daughter, too… perhaps you'd
have given it yourself if you'd seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit,
especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must
have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n'etes pas contents." He
laughed, "That's right, isn't it, Dounia?"
"No, it's not," answered Dounia firmly.
"Bah! you, too, have ideals," he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred,
and smiling sarcastically. "I ought to have considered that…. Well, that's praiseworthy,
and it's better for you… and if you reach a line you won't overstep, you will be
unhappy… and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier…. But all that's
nonsense," he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. "I only meant to say
that I beg your forgiveness, mother," he concluded, shortly and abruptly.